Wednesday, September 2, 2009

My Demented Mom

My mother is 78, and following two hip replacements four years ago, she very quickly developed a form of dementia characterized by zero short-term memory. As her cognitive function deteriorates, she has developed child-like behaviors and a loss of verbal skills. She also became a quilting machine, sewing quilt after quilt of cut-up jeans and fabric squares.

She sewed so many quilts, we three adult children struggled to find homes for them all. They went to the women's shelter in bulk; they went to the hospital; they went to the homeless and to Africa on missions. They went to the police department and to skid rows in L.A. and San Francisco, and they went to homes of unwed mothers.

This year, the quilts began to shrink in size, from twin-bed dimensions, to baby-blanket lengths, and now they have diminished to the size of large placemats. Mom's ability to do the math required by quilting has vanished. This past month, she can't remember how to run her sewing machine.

Watching my mother's mind collapse inward is painful for me, her only daughter. She ran a business for 25 years, until she was over 70. In my childhood, I was afraid of her brisk, no-nonsense personality; now I am afraid of her childlike innocence. She asks me how to dress. She asks me, "Is this my purse?" She says, "Thank you for taking care of me."

Mom lives in assisted living with five other women who need elder care. I take her out every Wednesday on a field trip to real life, and she marvels at the sky, the hills, the breeze in her hair. To battle my sadness, I practice the attitude of gratitude that seems to be a secret of success in life. Her cognitive function may be shrinking like her quilts, but her joy in living has grown.

Sometimes Mom can make funny little jokes that are quite lucid. One day in January, I carefully explained to her that it was an important day in the church calendar: Epiphany. She listened to my explanation, then said, "Oh, I have epiphanies every morning. I wake up and realize, 'Here I am again!'"And here is my poem about my mother's dementia, written on one of those sad days:

The Waiting Room

I sit here with my motherfeeling like a parenthush, keep your voice downdon’t talk to strangersstop squirming in your seatwhy don’t you read this nice magazine

Oh, Mom,where did you go?I watch you browsing Newsweekand you show me the picturesYou exclaim over Highlights studying the hidden-objects page You speak loudly of the fat ladythree seats over as if she can’t hear you

I can’t hear you anymore, MomYou referred to yourselfas an aged child today, the firsttruly lucid thing I’ve heard you sayin months. I’ve had better conversationswith my three-year-old grandsonyet you and I once exploredthe whole wide world together

I wish I had known the last good talkwe had was the last good talkwe ever would have, so I couldremember it down to the last detailWith bitterness I’m at warwith your frontal lobe, and yourtemporal lobes are my enemies

We wait here in this roomfor the doctor to pronounce sentenceon your disintegrating brain.It could always be worse,and how much worse it could gethe will tell us, a word I use politelyfor it is not us he speaks to, but to mefor you are lost in the fairy talesof childhood once againand I am left behind to sweep up the pieces.

2 comments:

You left me a lovely comment on my blog, so I felt the desire to read through yours... and oh myy... I do believe I've found a kindred soul in you! I am humbled by your serenity, your outlook on life... the transformation you've undergone through recovery. It shows!

My heart ached as I read of your mother. As my own mother was dying, earlier this year, and her mind was going - I had such similar feelings. That awful sense of... if only I'd know our last lucid conversation was going to be our last... how I would have treasured it, how much more I would have said to you. Even writing this, those feelings return. Ouch. Beautiful poem about your mom... absolutely beautiful...

I also read through several other messages of yours, and I could just sense "who" you are as I read your words, Chris - funny how it comes through! How wonderful that you have been reunited with your daughter - what a blessing. She is a beauty, isn't she? And then to read of your dad... your marriage... it's been a joy just getting to know you through your writings.

You have also managed to inspire me to write more. I haven't been inclined lately, as it has been a difficult year - but then again, as you've shown me, it often does help to write it out.

So glad you came by my blog and left your name - I'll keep coming back, to see what you're writing.

Oh, Ruth, you just made my morning wonderful. I'm off to see my mom, was feeling some dread, now because of you, I'm back to my better pair of glasses. Thank you for listening to me. I felt the same way about reading your blog. God bless your new day.

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About Me

I'm a poet, gardener, and freelance writer who lives in California by the coast, in a small town surrounded by pastures, woods, and vineyards. Other things I am: recovering LA magazine editor and recovering alcoholic, wife of a tolerant man, mom to two beautiful daughters, mistress of beagles and cats, lover of mysteries and photography, a survivor of suicide, depression, addiction, and sundry minor ailments. I write for a living and write poetry for life.

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